Conversion
by Wofl
Summary: Becoming a vampire isn't quick or easy. Sequel to Descent. angst. Dean whumpage. Spoilers for Bloodlust. Mature. Wincest.


It's like drowning, Dean thinks. The air growing stagnant in his lungs and he can't draw breath, can't struggle to the surface and break free. In some ways, it's quiet; almost peaceful. And at other times, it's screaming agony clutching at his chest, sending fire through his veins and he doesn't know how Sam managed to hide this from him for so long.

Oh, perhaps he'd noticed, and just turned a blind eye. Because that's what Dean does, concerning his brother. He denies and ignores and lets himself believe that Sammy is and always will be Sammy.

But not anymore.

Maybe it would be more accurate to say it's like standing on the edge of the ocean and challenging the tide. The murky water crashing onto the shore in brutal, unforgiving waves, and then, hours later, they retreat, washing away little bits of Dean. It's a useless battle, one he'll never win; but if anyone is bullheaded enough to try, it's Dean Winchester. He can feel the loss, embodied by a hollow ache that has taken up residence in his chest. It's a hunger. A _thirst_. It's so overwhelming, at times, so powerful that it can stop him in his tracks, bring him to his knees with the sheer magnitude of it.

It's those times that he almost forgets what his brother is - _what he, himself, is becoming_ - because Sam is so gentle with him, tucking him against his chest and whispering soothing nothings into his ear. _It's okay. I know. It'll pass, Dean, just hold out a little longer._

Of course Sam knows, has gone through them himself, Dean realizes after a particularly bad episode. How, how, _how_ had his brother managed to hide this from him?! Dean hates feeling so weak, but the hunger is all consuming, the _changes_ in his body are accompanied by a pain akin to having caustic acid instead of blood in one's veins. It's nearly blinding, sometimes, but faithful Sam is always there to help him through it.

He shouldn't be grateful for Sam's presence. He should feel nothing but hatred for this thing that isn't quite his brother anymore. This thing is the responsible culprit for all the pains, the hunger, the changes. Sam did this to him, _Sam_ did. But, oh, does it hurt to try and think of Sam as a _thing_. And asking Dean to put _hate_ and _Sammy_ in the same sentence is like asking the Yellow Eyed Demon to just knock it off already. It just isn't feasible, in any sense of the word.

Because Sam is still his brother. And Dean knows somewhere deep down, that they are the same, now. It's still hard for him to bring that particular realization to light. He still hasn't quite been able to bring himself to do admit openly that he is becoming a vampire, a _monster._ He's becoming one of the things he used to hunt.

It's been two days, since the truck-stop bathroom, since one of Dean's darkest fears had slithered up from the deepest corners of his nightmares and made itself a vicious reality. Two days since the blood and the fear and the helplessness and oh, the lust. It's been two days since the most mind-blowing sex he's ever had.

Dean remembers it vividly. Flesh on flesh, friction, motion, and there should have been heat as well – it should have burned him right up. But his skin is so cold now, always frigid, always pale; just the first of many changes yet to come. He doesn't really notice it as much now, but then… then he had noted the chill of Sam's hands as they caressed and teased.

He didn't care, dammit. Not when Sam was kissing him like that and when his fingers - slick with nothing but spit – slid into him, stretching and coaxing muscles that had never before been challenged in such a way. But God, it had felt _amazing_ and Dean's eyes were wide, staring up at the vast nothing on the ceiling, feeling for the first time, that he could truly _see_.

Then Sam was grunting in his ear, thrusting into Dean and he hardly noticed the pain of that first slow-burning contact. It faded soon enough and Dean was breathless in its wake, couldn't seem to think around the way Sam was pressed against him - _in him - _ restless, never stopping. It'd been a ruthless fuck, and Dean was making noises he hadn't known he was capable of.

And Sam, clever, sneaky, incredible Sam; his voice was a low possessive growl, admonitions of how much Sam wanted him, needed him. They should have seemed girly to Dean, but given the circumstances, they all went directly to his cock and suddenly they were moving together, Dean rocking in time to Sam's thrusts and it was hot and messy and fast and blinding.

All too soon it was over and Dean was slumped, breathless against Sam, who was cooing soothing words at Dean, telling him how fucking hot it was, to see him like that. Then Dean seemed to collect himself and shoved Sam away, wiping himself off with paper towels and yanking his pants back up while Sam leaned against the stall door and watched him, smiling slyly.  
"Bitch."

"I think you're the bitch now, jerk."

Dean snorted and flipped his brother the bird, but somewhere, the human part of him cried mercy and collapsed with relief. Because if Sam was saying that, then somewhere, deep down, Sam was still Sam. All hope was not lost.

The realization had only been somewhat hindered by the fact that Dean knew they were utterly and properly FUBAR.

Wouldn't Dad be proud, to know he still remembered what that meant.

Well, actually, Dad wouldn't be proud. Dad would behead them both. But Dad was not there, now was he? Dean was simultaneously relieved and disappointed by that fact and he wondered how that was even possible.

After they vacate the bathroom, Sam drags Dean back to the Impala and shoves him forcefully into the passenger seat. Immediately, Dean's hackles rise and it's his turn to glower, face contorting with an unimpressed leer as Sam slides into the driver's seat.

"You are _not_ driving my car," he states, in what he thinks is an authoritative tone, but apparently not because Sam just snorts in an amused sort of way.

"Yeah, and I'm gonna let _you_ drive?" Sam looks at Dean in one of those _are you fucking stupid or what_ sort of ways.

"Dude, why not? It's my car, Sammy," and at this point, Dean is ready to wrestle with his brother for the wheel. It just isn't fucking funny anymore.

"Yeah, and I'll just sit back and let you drive us straight to Bobby or Ellen." Sam smirks while Dean deadpans. "Don't lie. I know you were thinking it. You were gonna ask them to do the job, admit it."

Sam's words are a whip to his back, cruel and unforgiving as they bite into Dean's flesh. God, they hurt. Probably more so because they're true.

"What's the matter?" Sam's eyes narrow and God, where has his little brother gone now? What is this monster masquerading in a Sam suit? "Too weak to do it yourself?"

Dean's gaze wavers, his mouth falling open, begging Dean's mind for the right words. But it can not supply what is simply not there and Dean can only sit there, stunned into silence. It is a terse moment in which Sam eyes him with something like pity, something like disgust, but mostly like triumph. At last, when it seems that Sam actually expects an answer from him, he leans back against the seat and mutters, "Yeah, Sammy, that's it."

For once, there is no hint of sarcasm in Dean's voice.

Defeat settles like a cape around his shoulders and Dean slumps in the seat, turning to stare blankly out the window. It is a battle lost, and pitifully, but not the war, goddammit. Not the war.

He grits his teeth and feels a strange new ache take up residence in his gums at the action. Sam harrumphs out a happy little noise over his victory and starts the car, pulling out onto the road and driving with a reckless abandon that is very unbecoming of his brother, considering Sam has always been the more careful of the two.

The ache, he learns soon enough, stems from his new teeth. The pain has risen from an ache to a grinding misery, as the day grows old until Dean falls asleep from the sheer monotony of watching scenery fly by with no idea of where they are going.

He wakes, hours later, moaning and pressing a hand to his mouth. The pain has doubled, maybe even tripled since Dean last remembers. It's too much to think around, God, it's worse than the time Dad had pulled one of his molars -_ "It's broken. It'll have to go. Take a deep breath, Dean, this is gonna hurt." _- with a pair of pliers. At least they'd been clean; Dean remembers it was the first time he'd been glad of Dad's anal tendencies concerning the condition their tools and weapons should be kept in.

At least then he'd had a damper to his senses, couldn't feel it fully beneath the haze of pain pills that Dad had forced onto him. And afterwards, Sam... Sam had held his hand, eyes wide at how tightly Dean had clung back.

At the memory, the pain he'd felt then fuses with this pain and somehow, it's worse, Jesus Christ, his mouth is on _fire_, and he can almost feel Sam's fingers in his, squeezing hard. Takes him a moment to work through the torture enough to realize he _can_ feel Sam's fingers. Without Dean noticing, Sam has managed to pull over the car and he's leaning across the seat, lacing his fingers with Dean's. His brother lifts his other hand to ghost across Dean's jaw, as if to soothe away the hurt.

Dean almost whimpers at the touch, pulling away quickly. He would tell Sam to back the fuck off, but thinks better of it when just the slide of his lips over his gums when he opens his mouth to do so is enough to nearly blindside him with a spike of fiery irritation. This time he _does_ whimper.

"That bad, huh?" Sam asks knowingly, not really a question; more an observation. His eyes darken and he doesn't hide a wince as he recalls his own teething process. Dean turns his head to look at him, questions in his eyes and Sam is still Sam somewhere in there. So Sam knows.

"I told you I had a toothache, remember?" Pretty fucking massive toothache, Dean thinks, but he does remember. Sam had refused to leave his bed and Dean had fretted and forced painkillers on him and had fretted some more. As designated by the Winchester code of The Way Things Are. Don't involve others if you can help it, just suck it up until it goes away.

"It's just going to get worse," Sam says, looking a bit pained. Dean catches a movement from the corner of his eye, looks up to see Sam's hand raised, pistol gripped tightly in his fingers. "Just…trust me, okay?" Sam is saying, even as Dean jerks, scrambles to get away from what he knows is coming. "I'm doing this to help, Dean."

He remembers seeing the arc of Sam's arm as it cascades towards his head, but not much else. With years of practice under his belt, Sam knows the best spot to strike to render Dean unconscious while simultaneously causing as little damage as possible.

Dean doesn't feel any pain, really, just slides down into blissful, merciful unconsciousness.

After checking the lump growing on Dean's head to make sure there's no bleeding, Sam starts the car and drives on into the night.  



End file.
